


A Simple Werewolf Hunt

by TheGreenestGreenToEverGreen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A day in the life of, Gen, Hunters & Hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 15:19:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10493766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheGreenestGreenToEverGreen/pseuds/TheGreenestGreenToEverGreen
Summary: A short fic following the end of a simple werewolf hunt. It's all about the details. Even a short open and close case that all goes to plan, can leave you with details to think about, if you look at them from a point of view that you never considered before...





	

**Author's Note:**

> There's more going on then you think
> 
> Hopefully
> 
> P.s. Not beta'd. Sorry for any grammatical mistakes, I'm dyslexic so it's really tough to proofread my own work.

The night wind was cold, blowing sharply across the rain slicked winter streets. The air in the alley was clogged with the smell of urine and unidentifiable rotting substances, and the violent gusts of wind did nothing to disperse the smell. The tall, well-muscled man waiting stealthily in the alley, pulled closed his large leather jacket as he hugged the shadows along the rain dampened wall. He briefly brushed his hand over the gun at the small of his back, a familiar gesture, as his piercing eyes stayed trained on the street at the open end of the ally. The jacket was well worn and the hint of old whiskey and gun oil with the faintest tinge of blood briefly reached the hunters nose with the movement of the jacket, a smell like home but currently offering no comfort. The wind was biting cold and the wait had been dragging on for hours. The hunter clenched and unclenched his muscles, keeping up circulation, fending off the cold, trained to keep himself ready to react at a moment's notice, despite the hours of virtual stillness in the frigid night air. The glint of the full moon could be seen across the street reflecting off of the puddles of standing water fretfully stirred by the wind. A thin sliver missing from its leading edge denoted the last day of the full moon. The son of a bitch was going to die tonight. He wouldn't let another month roll by and the killings start again before he ganked the evil bastard.

Briefly reaching up to rasp blunt fingers across rough stubble and then run those same strong fingers through short wind spiked hair, the hunter massaged the weariness from his face, his alert senses still trained outwards, when the cold gusting wind brought a sound to his ears. Focusing his attention on the faint scrape that he had heard, the hunter silently removed the gun from the back of his jeans and eased the safety off, bringing the gun up in front his body. His arms were loose and steady, both hands clasped gently but firmly on the grip. He was ready to point, aim and fire in one smooth practiced motion no matter where his target appeared.

Well familiarised by now with his surroundings, the hunter kept back within the pool of shadows against the damp alley wall and used the window in the building opposite to catch a glimpse of movement coming down the street from the right. His breathing was silent and slow, allowing the faint mist from his breath to dissipate quickly in the gusting wind. He attentively tracked the sound of the approach. Werewolves were fast. When he decided to take his shot there would be little time to assess the situation and make the best shot. If he missed then the wolf would be on him and it would be down to hand to hand. His knife was a heavy presence at his belt, a quick flex of his ankle within his solid boots confirmed that his backup knife was still safely in place. But if it came down to hand to hand, things were going to get messy and he would most likely be patching himself up with cheap whisky and dental floss before the night was through. For a moment the hunter felt a stab of anguish at the lack of the warm presence that should stand at his shoulder so that he didn't face the horrors of the night alone. But the world was as the world was, he couldn't change that now, and so he hardened his face and he put the flash of pain aside. The solution simply was not to miss the shot.

Forty meters. Thirty meters. The prowling footsteps advanced closer. He was a damn good marksman, even with a pistol, but it was night, he had one shot and the thing would move fast once it became aware of his presence. Best chance for a clean shot would be at less than 20 meters, but over 10 meters or it would be on him too fast. The information flashed quickly through the hunter's mind, just a last minute confirmation. The facts and figures had already been well considered when the hunter had chosen and set up his ambush site. Judging the exact moment the sound of prowling steps reached a distance of 20 meters, the hunter raised the gun and leading with the weapon curled his body out of the alley. Legs slightly bent he took a measured stance for stability, a position that moved his head lower then an attacker might expect as he moved out of the alley and into sight of his target. Head up and eyes seeking, the gun training automatically as his focused on the threat, it took the hunter about half a second to assess the situation. Street still clear of civilians. Target 18 meters to the right. Werewolf. Male. Pissed off apparently. Lamppost to the rear left of target offering slight potential for ricochet. Partial obstruction of shot from the trash can in the foreground, but the hunter was aiming high for a heart so discounted the obstacle after a nanoseconds consideration.

The information was processed as quickly as it was observed and it seemed almost immediately that the hunter had stilled his breath, braced his arms with the gun held steady in his right hand, the left hand cradled securely under the butt of the weapon, and was gently squeezing the trigger. The roar of the weapon split the night.

The werewolf wasn't thrown backwards off his feet, as the bullet took him in the chest. Instead there was a wet thuwmping sound and the creature stumbled to a halt before it collapsed forward onto the ground in a sprawl. The hunter stayed still for a few seconds, senses alert as he surveyed the situation. The wolf was down and appeared not to be moving. Despite the roar that had split the night the hunter couldn't hear any other voices or the sounds of footsteps over the cold moaning wind. If any civilians and registered the shot they weren't in a hurry to investigate. Similarly there was no scrabble of a last minute attack from a second pack member jumping out to take the hunter by surprise. This wasn't TV, hunting a single werewolf was suspense enough without the cheap thrill of a surprise second attack. The hunter had researched the attack patterns carefully. The bite radii, the number and method of kills, the eye witness reports. There was no indication that the wolf was not alone. The hunters caution was just healthy paranoia, not poor research.

Mentally calling the all clear, the broad shouldered hunter started a timer in his head. Given the poor area of downtown and lack of traffic this time of night, if any of the good citizens had suffered an attack of conscience and decided to call the cops, he had around 14mins to get clear. With his gun held at a ready position, his arms loose, the hunter slowly approached the creature sprawled facedown on the ground with a hard glint in his eyes and a thrill humming through his blood. Eyes trained on the beast, he gently reached out one heavy boot to nudge it in the shoulder, keeping his weapon trained. There was no response, so with a harder use of his boot the man caught the beast's shoulder and rolled the body onto its back. He assessed the now slowing spread of blood, the gaping chest wound and the glassy staring eyes before placing the fingers of his left hand to its cooling throat to find no pulse. A small amount of tension eased out of the hunter's shoulders and his back straightened. Definitely dead. A small hard grin lit his features, satisfaction at a job well done, as he eased the safety back on the weapon and returned the now warmed barrel to the back of his jeans. So far so good. Nice and smooth. Now time for part two of the familiar song and dance. Taking hold of the creatures ankles the hunter began to drag it back into the alley. He was leaving a trail of blood on the damp winter streets, but that couldn't be helped. He had chosen this spot not only as it was one of the creatures prime hunting spots but also because it had little foot traffic and no cctv coverage. The blood would wash away, the lack of witnesses was a better bonus then a little mess. One less thing to worry about in the complicated business of monster disposal.

Being careful not to step in the blood and not to leave boot prints from his generic unbranded heavy work boots, the hunter moved back into the shadows with his burden trailing behind. Releasing the creature the man turned to the large dumpster. (The lock of which he had picked earlier and emptied of its previous content.) Throwing open the lid he reached back down and heaved the body into the bin, trying to keep as much blood as possible off himself and his leather jacket. Bad enough getting his own blood out of the leather, cleaning off monster blood was a bitch. Quickly he moved back to the army duffle he had left in the alley when he first set up the ambush and he removed: rags, salt and lighter fluid. With a practiced efficiently the hunter used the rags to clear his fingerprints from the dumpster and mop up a few small spots of blood that had landed on his dark blue jeans and leather jacket. Wiping clean his hands he turned back to the dumpster and dropped the dirty rags into the trash, liberally applied salt and lighter fluid, before using generic non branded windproof matches to set the dumpster and its contents alight. Mindful of the timer in his head the hunter quickly glanced round the site to check that nothing was left behind and the area was clear so that the fire could not spread to the damp buildings either side of the alley. Carefully packing his duffel and doing a once over of his kit to ensure everything was in its correct place, he eyed the burning corpse to ensure that the fire had properly caught before moving off calmly out of the alley. Walking at a sedate but purposeful pace, the hunter placed a cap on his head taken from within his jacket pocket, hitched up his bag higher on his shoulder and moved out of the area on his planned escape route. He avoided street cameras and keeping his face turned down under his cap until he was at a high point of the city about a 15 minute walk from the starting point. Once again slipping into the deep shadows of an alley he set down his duffle and settled to wait for signs of disturbance or pursuit. The wind continued to blow and after the brief burst of exertion, the hunter felt the cold once again begin to seep through his jacket now that he was stationary. He ignored the discomfort and waited. Approximately 20 minutes passed and the gentle background noise of the city had not been disturbed by either the wail of sirens nor the cracking of a raging warehouse fire, the man sighed gently with a release of adrenaline. The first cold spots of rain were starting to fall as he turned, re-shouldering his duffle and made his way to the safe secluded spot he had left his car.

The gleam of the polished black classic car with its glistening chrome and sweeping lines, stood out in the poorer district late at night, but she sat untouched where he had left her. Opening the boot and propping up the false floor with with a sawn-off shotgun, the hunter placed his duffle inside and quickly transferred the items within to their relevant homes. He closed up and moved smoothly around the vehicle, sliding gratefully into the comforting embraced of the worn leather seats and curling his fingers gently round the familiar steering wheel. He sighed contentedly as he turned the key in the ignition and the car rumbled to life, just as the rain began to fall in earnest. Turning the windscreen wipers on he manoeuvred her out onto the road, turned on the Zeppelin cassette in the player and mumbled, "Let's get home Baby."

The motel that was currently serving as home was about 2 hours north from the city on a lonely little exit from the main road. The night was well advanced as the hunter pulled up in front of the tired looking building that housed the room he had rented almost a week ago. Another weary sigh left his lips. What he wouldn't give right now for a strong black coffee, a slice of pie and bored friskey waitress. But it was late and he needed to be back on the road tomorrow, there was the salt and burn Bobby had put him on to that he still hadn't got round to. Thankfully the rain had eased as the hunter made his way out of the car, but the cold night wind was still gusting. He fished in his pocket for the room keys and carefully opened the door. The line of salt on the floor was undisturbed and glancing left he saw that the window was still salted too. The street lamp outside the window shed enough light into the room that he didn't need to turn on the main light as he carefully stepped into the room and closed and locked the door behind him. He made his way around the second bed, the one closest to the door and sat down heavily. There was a mumble from the other bed and as he turned on the bedside lamp, the mess of blankets groaned and sat up.

He looked over kindly and spoke softly.  
"Hey buddy, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you. Go on back to sleep."

The small face that looked back at him rubbed sleepily at his eyes. "Did everything go okay Dad?" The question was quiet but insistent.

"Yep Dean, everything went fine. We stopped the bad guy and saved a lot of lives tonight. It was a good night." John's reply was quiet so as not to wake the second bundle snuggled up and still fast asleep next to his brother. John kept his voice kind and hid his weariness. "Were you guys alright on your own?" He was still not used to leaving the boys for more than a day or two on their own, but Dean was 12 now, and he acts so much older than his years. John knows that he can trust Dean to watch out for his brother with far more confidence than he would have leaving them with most of the acquaintances he has made through the hunters’ network. 

The boy in the other bed flicks a glance down at his sleeping brother and something crosses his face. John misses it though, he is wearily scrubbing his hands across his face and rolling his shoulders trying to work out the kinks that: hours of waiting in the cold dark alley, a sudden burst of adrenaline and then 2 hours cramped in the car, have worked into knots. Dean looks up then with resolution in his face, which falters immediately at the signs of weariness he sees in his father. His father who is out there hunting monsters and saving lives, while all Dean has to do is look after Sammy. Dean can't complain. Not to his dad. He will just have to find ways to be better able to cope. "It was fine Sir." Dean says, adding a smile. "We were fine." He finds a cheeky grin from somewhere. “You know us."  
A weary smile lights up John's face. "Yep I sure do. That's m’ boys!” He gets up and moves towards the shower, hot water sounding better than sleep just now. "I'm'a grab a quick shower. You go on back to sleep. We are on the road early tomorrow."

Dean lays back down as he hears the bathroom door close and water turn on. Sammy is still asleep, but the kid can sleep through anything, and luckily for him he's still too young to know that there is anything in the dark to be afraid of. As Dean snuggles back into the warmth of his brother he has a rare flashback to being young and feeling safe. Before. And it's mixed up with warm relief that dad is back now, and him and Sammy are safe. And as Dean drifts off to sleep, he decides that he will do better for dad, he deserves all the help he can get. He's a real life superhero.

John standards under the water, for once mercifully hot, and tries to let the tension drain from his muscles. It was true what he said to Dean it was a good hunt, but the flash of anguish that he felt mid hunt is now nipping at him. Hunting alone ain't smart. Works better as a 2 man job. Someone to watch your back. Maybe he should start thinking about getting Dean properly trained up - not just the bits and pieces they have done so far. Not for actual hunting, well at least not yet. Just trained up, so he can better protect his brother. Then maybe later, when he's older, he could help out with hunts. John isn't too sure how he feels about that, Dean is so young, but then again the monsters don't care how young you are they'll kill ya just the same, and Dean is strong and so mature for his age, if anyone can handle it, it's Dean. The conflicting thoughts are crashing round John’s head, and it's late, and he's exhausted. Maybe after the next job he'll get a chance to sit down and think about this properly. For now he needs some sleep, they need to be on the road tomorrow.

**Author's Note:**

> So hopefully you thought this was a Dean story, just told with a quirky style, and the fact that it turned out to be a John story came as a bit of a surprise(?)
> 
> Yep John ain't going to win any parenting awards but I think that too often we forget that (a) he was a damn good hunter and soldier in his own right (after all it was him who trained the worlds best hunting duo) and (b) he really did love those boys and hunting just kept getting in the way and things were complicated.
> 
> I think it's nice to remember that not everything in life is easy black and white :)


End file.
